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Frank Oldfield, or Lost and Found
by the Reverend T.P. Wilson, M.A., Rector of Smethcote

Published by T. Nelson and Sons, London, Edinburgh and
New York, 1872.

Also by W. Tweedie, 337 Strand, London,
and at The Office of the United Kingdom Band of Hope Union,
5 Red Lion Square, London.

Preface

The Committee of the United Kingdom Band of Hope Union having offered
prizes of One Hundred Pounds, and Fifty Pounds respectively, for the two
best tales illustrative of Temperance in its relation to the young, the
present tale, "Frank Oldfield," was selected from eighty four tales as
the one entitled to the first prize. The second tale, "Tim Maloney,"
was written by Miss M.A. Paull, of Plymouth, and will shortly be
published. Appended is the report of the adjudicators:

We the adjudicators appointed by the Committee of the United Kingdom
Band of Hope Union, to decide upon the Prize Tales for which premiums of
One Hundred Pounds, and Fifty Pounds, were offered by advertisement,
hereby declare that we have selected the tale with the motto "Nothing
extenuate, or set down aught in malice," as that entitled to the First
Prize of One Hundred Pounds; and the tale with the motto "Hope on,
Hope ever," as that entitled to the Second Prize of Fifty Pounds.

This book was well written, and generally exciting throughout, although
one of the early chapters was a bit lacking in action (people seated
round the dinner table). The action was credible and well described.
The whole thing rang very true, and for that reason might be read by
someone wishing to gain more knowledge of life two thirds of the way
through the nineteenth century. The Reverend Wilson writes well, and it
would be pleasant to seek out and read other books from his pen.
N.H. (transcriber)

FRANK OLDFIELD, BY THE REVEREND T.P. YOUNG

CHAPTER ONE.

LOST.

"Have you seen anything of our Sammul?" These words were addressed in a
very excited voice to a tall rough looking collier, who, with Davy lamp
in hand, was dressed ready for the night shift in the Bank Pit of the
Langhurst Colliery. Langhurst was a populous village in the south of
Lancashire. The speaker was a woman, the regularity of whose features
showed that she had once been good looking, but from whose face every
trace of beauty had been scorched out by intemperance. Her hair
uncombed, and prematurely grey, straggled out into the wind. Her dress,
all patches, scarcely served for decent covering; while her poor half
naked feet seemed rather galled than protected by the miserable slippers
in which she clattered along the pavement, and which just revealed some
filthy fragments of stockings.

"No, Alice," was the man's reply; "I haven't seen anything of your
Sammul." He was turning away towards the pit, when he looked back and
added, "I've heard that you and Thomas are for making him break his
teetottal; have a care, Alice, have a care you'll lose him for good and
all if you don't mind."

She made him no answer, but turning to another collier, who had lately
come from his work, and was sauntering across the road, she repeated her
question,

"Jim, have you seen anything of our Sammul?"

"No, I know nothing about him; but what's amiss, Alice? you're not
afraid that he's slipped off to the `George'?"

"The `George!' no, Jim, but I can't make it out; there must be summut
wrong, he came home about an hour since, and stripped and washed him,
then he goes right up into the chamber, and after a bit comes down into
the house with his best shoes and cap on. `Where art going, Sammul?'
says I. He says nothing, but crouches him down by the hearth stone, and
stares into the fire as if he seed summat strange there. Then he looks
all about him, just as if he were reckoning up the odd bits of things;
still he says nothing... Continue reading book >>